The owner of the house

The movers came, and took
her bed, table, everything,
until the house was empty.

She was walking on a
at night, in a dark dress,
and so she was hit.

A driver who had seen it
said that he thought someone
threw a doll up in the air.

I found some smaller things
that had been overlooked.
A fish made of wood.

A bell, perhaps for calling
a cat. Every night
one comes around and mourns.

A hidden drawer with thread
and needle, thimble, things
as hidden as a heart.

She let the house run down,
the garden be overgrown,
lost in her arcane studies.

They had to do with the eye
of a fish that she had found
somewhere in Mexico.

A neighbor disconnected
the refrigerator, but did not
think to empty it. Fishes stink.

I open the door of a cabinet,
and forget to close it again—
whack! The side of my head.

“Just to remind you,”
she whispers, “it’s my house.”
The carpenters are hard at work—

I need more space. She stands
watching a while, and leaves.
She’ll have the run of it still.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 18 Number 9, on page 38
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https://newcriterion.com/issues/2000/5/the-owner-of-the-house